


Bittersweet Symphony

by politicalmedievalistnerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arya Stark (mentioned) - Freeform, Bran Stark (Mentioned) - Freeform, F/F, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Post - The Winds of Winter, Post-Canon, Rickon Stark (Mentioned) - Freeform, Spoilers, Winter, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 04:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13732734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politicalmedievalistnerd/pseuds/politicalmedievalistnerd
Summary: You could say Lady Stark isn't coping, and you could say the Tyrells are evil schemers. You /could/, but don't need to.





	Bittersweet Symphony

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I wrote this in twenty minutes listening to the Cruel Intentions soundtrack...Hence the shortness. It's more of a scene than a proper fanfic. It's set in a slightly AU world (meaning, it COULD become canon but I really doubt it), where Sansa is the only Stark heir (Jon Snow is discounted on account of being dead/a bastard) and therefore takes up the role of Lady Stark. King's Landing has burned down but a few of the Southron families have survived, and are gathering in Winterfell before the final battle, trying to influence the way the war will work. Book canon, so Stannis and that are still alive, Dany hasn't invaded yet, etc)

They stood close. One staring at the other. The pair stood in the courtyard, which was blanketed in thick snow. A vibrant orange sunset streamed in over the high castle walls, mystically managing to penetrate the thick defenses of the clouds. The trim of Margaery’s cornflower blue dress rested on the fluffy, white ground.

 

“Sansa,” she said, voice soft. Her doe eyes stayed locked to the ginger’s cheekbone. Sansa wouldn’t meet her eyes. Margaery tightened her grip on the Northern girl’s shoulders, digging her nails in slightly, despite the uselessness of the action - nobody, these days, wore less than five layers. “The sun will set soon. We ought to get inside, sweetling.” From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of even the servants scampering inside the walls, hunting for a fire before the world grew dark. The days were the shortest anyone had ever experienced; lasting a mere few hours.

 

Winterfell’s daughter still had glassy eyes. Unfocused, too. Unseeing. Margaery was loathe to calling out reinforcements. Until a week before, she had easily distracted the girl by accompanying her to the Godswood, where Sansa prayed and Margaery did needlework, or just caught her breath. Without the retreat to the Gods, the Stark’s life seemed to be falling apart.

 

“Sansa,” and she ran a finger over where the girl’s heart would be as she spoke, “we need to get inside.”

“How do you think they died, Margaery?” The voice that emerged was brittle and unnaturally high. Sansa still didn’t look. “Do you think the Others ate Bran’s face first, or his feet? His feet were dead anyway. Do you think he cried? He used to try to never cry in front of us. He forgot we’d all seen him as a little babe.” Her voice snapped. 

“Sansa,” she repeated. “If you aren’t feeling well enough for dinner, there will be no problem in going straight to-”

 

“Did Arya die after Father? Did someone find her on the road and stab her? Rape her? Did they know who she was? Did her body burn with King’s Landing? Or do you think she made it further?” She pressed on. “Did someone skewer her in the Riverlands? Did she drown or starve?” Sansa shrugged off Margaery’s hands, escaping despite the tight grip. Margaery swallowed hard, desperately trying to maintain her composure.

“Whatever happened, my sweet, she will be safe now. Reunited with your family.” Margaery bit her tongue on the lie.

 

Sansa walked further away, slow, before turning and viciously tearing off a glove. Margaery winced. Fingers got amputated each day as the winter grew more vicious. She had seen it in person. It sickened her. Put her off dinner.

 

“And Rickon was sent off with savages. Spit-roasted, perhaps. I wonder if they gave him the courtesy of an apple in his mouth, like we do with pork dishes. There was so much pork in the Capitol.” Her jaw was clenched so hard that lines of strain ran down each side. “I thought one day I might be Queen and have it all. And then, someday, you would be Queen and I the Imp’s wife, maybe with a good portion of pork, should I stay in your good graces. But the moment the light shone through those rainbow panes of glass, you  _ left  _ me, Margaery. You left!” There were tears in Sansa’s voice now, and she ripped off her other glove. Margaery felt a shudder run up her spine. Her mission was clear: to get the last remaining Stark on side. The North’s politics were impenetrable usually, and even with Sansa being the most Southron of any that had lived, it was difficult to grip. A marriage might have done it, if Willas hadn’t...hadn’t…

 

“Lady Stark,” she tried again. “Please - you know how dangerous -”   
“It was  _ dangerous  _ to let my sister run off, but the guards were so horrid they could not even do me, their prisoner, the small justice of capturing my sister! They took Jeyne and let Littlefinger have her raped and married to that Bolton and  _ murdered!  _ Nobody ever wanted me, just for me!” The girl fell to her knees, choking on rivers of tears streaming down her face. “I just wanted to be Queen and have babies and sing songs.” She covered her face with her hands and the world was silent, for a few moments.

 

“You were my friend. Truly. It was convenient for my family, but I did truly like your company,” the older of the two said, clasping her hands together.  _ Don’t fiddle,  _ growled her grandmother’s voice.

 

Sansa looked up at her, frozen, and then arranged her face into the perfect courtier’s smile, although she’d never learned to control her eyes. It was the crack in her facade. Margaery had always picked it. Sansa could wear a mask but never quite became it - at least not in King’s Landing. “I’m glad it was convenient.”

  
“Sansa,” Margaery whispered. “I can get you milk of the poppy, if you need. To sleep.”

The girl uncovered her face, now clean but bright red and awfully raw. “Tell them I’m not going to be dining tonight. Thank you.” With a stony expression, she pulled her hood over her flaming hair. Margaery hesitated. “Leave me.”

 

Without another word, the girl strode out of the gates, and into the dark, snowy world that no longer belonged to humans.


End file.
